Thoughts and opinions. LOTS of opinions.

Those that know me might have some confusion at that statement. “Wait just a minute. Your Mom died three years ago.” Yep, that is correct.

Or, they might be creeped out, thinking that we either just now buried Mom after three years of waiting, or the poor woman was exhumed and re-interred.

None of the above would be correct.

I was adopted into the best family an adoptee could hope for. I have frequently commented that I was adopted into the Cleaver household, making reference to the TV show, “Leave it to Beaver.” I was raised well, given an education, and loved my entire life. Unfortunately, my Dad (John Peters) died in 2000, my Mom (Myrtle Dillaman Peters) in 2011, and my only sister (JoAnne Peters) this year. Weird to think I’m an orphan.

But the story doesn’t end there. Since my youth, I have known I was adopted. I guess Pop knew of other adopted kids that learned of their adoption from other people when they were teens or later, and had a bitter time of the knowledge. He was determined that would not be the case for me. I remember he called me upstairs and sat me down and told me of my adoption. How when a baby is born, the parents love the child that was given to them, but they didn’t know anything about the baby before the baby was born. But sometimes, a family gets to choose their baby, and that’s what he and Mom did with me. They were lucky enough to have the opportunity to choose a baby to love as their own, and that was me.

I guess the words sunk in, because I recall them fifty-some years later. At the time, I just remember thinking that somehow this must be important to Dad, because he’s being so serious, but for me, he had interrupted me in the middle of a TV show, and could I please get back to “Lassie?”

Mom and Dad could have easily shut out all discussion or speculation of my birth Mom, but they did not. My entire life they made sure I honored her, that she was a good woman who had been in difficult circumstances, and did the best for her baby that she knew how to do. Bit by bit, piece by piece over the years, I put together a lot of the story. It had been a private adoption. My bio Mom had personally contacted Mom and Dad, asking them to adopt her child when born. Mom and Dad ultimately said yes. I was born in Spencer Hospital in Meadville, six weeks premature, and with a blockage between my stomach and small intestine that very nearly ended the story before it barely had begun. That at about three days old, a Nun ran down the hall to my parents, and with joy was repeating over and over, “He had a bowel movement! He had a bowel movement!” And that at five days old, my birth mother walked down the hall, put me in my adoptive mother’s arms, hugged my Mom, turned, and walked away.

My biological mother, Wilma Angerer, had been previously married and lived in Ohio as Wilma Scranton. She had six children, Barb, Tim, Mike, Bob, and most recently, twins, Bonnie and Becky. Her husband was a truck driver by trade, and although the details are a bit sketchy, the bare facts were that he was in an accident, and killed as a result. Wilma, left without a husband and with six kids, moved back to Pennsylvania to the family farm with her folks. Grief works its way through different people in different ways, and Wilma eventually found comfort for a time in the arms of another man. When she became pregnant, it became apparent to her that the man was a cad, and he was basically dismissed from her life. However, she was in a predicament. Pregnant, without a husband, and caring for six kids, the youngest three (including a set of twins) in diapers. It turns out that my folks lived a short distance from her, just a short walk through the woods. Wilma approached John and Myrtle with her dilemma, and my adoption by them was the solution.

As I grew older, my parents occasionally advised me that if I wanted to look up my bio Mom, that I should think about doing it, as “She wasn’t getting any younger.” (Really, Mom and Dad? I wasn’t sure that’s how it works, but thanks…) I happened to see in the newspaper once that pre-adoption birth certificates were available for my age range, but not for much longer. I sent away, paid the costs involved, and received the certificate in the mail. I didn’t open it for some time, but I had it by, for when I was ready.

I’m not very skilled at remembering ages, dates, and so forth, but my wife assures me that it was a little over seventeen years ago that I decided that I needed to find my bio family. I called and talked to my parents, advising them that I was ready to meet my birth Mom. After a brief search, they got me her address, and I wrote to her, explaining the situation, and where I was. I remember the stress and fear that accompanied that letter: what if she rejected me; what if she didn’t want anything to do with me? I needn’t have worried, that was far from the case. She wrote back, and we corresponded a couple of times before we were able to meet. I was a secret that she had carried for forty years. She said that she had to “explain a few things to her family,” and after that, we met. Beth and I drove to her small home in western PA, and for the first time in forty years, I saw the woman who had carried me and bore me, and had the courage to let me go when she knew she couldn’t care for me as she wanted. After that, she wanted me to meet my brothers and sisters (I have brothers and sisters?) and extended family, and it was arranged. Beth and I drove to the fire hall, and met her family (MY family!). My parents were also invited, and it was with much fear and trepidation that we got together. It was a good meeting, and after, my Dad said (one of those things I treasure) that he watched me interact with my biological family, and he was proud of me.

Over the years, we got together with my bio when we could, and learned some of the family history. We have met some family that are more than family; they are friends, and folks I we would hang around even if not related. The fact that we are, just makes it better. There are many that I want to get to know better if time permits.

But the problem with time is that it continues to pass (Really, Clark? Nobody knew that’s how it works, but thanks…). Nobody gets younger, and last summer we got together with the Scranton/Surrrarrer clan, with the matriarch, Wilma, present for the last time. She knew then that she was slowing down, and started her preparations then. Since then the slow-down spiral picked up its pace, and five days ago, my Mother left this plain for the promise of a better eternity.

Yesterday, on a beautiful, chilly October day, we laid our mother, our sister, aunt, and grandmother to rest. I reflected a lot yesterday, amid tears and pain, comfort and emotions. I wished that I had more time with her, to really get to know her. In my experience, life and distance are do not cooperative toward that end, and I will carry this regret with me the rest of my life. Of course, that isn’t the only regret, I will just add that to the pile, I guess.

I am proud of my adoptive family, proud to be a Peters/Dillaman. My cousins are precious to me, and I am grateful for their friendship, and the memories we share. I am a product of the nurture I received from my parents and extended family.

And I am proud of my biological family, proud to be a Scranton/Surrarrer. With all the drama, with all the emotion, this is the stock from which I came. This mix of chromosomes and genes are part of what makes me who I am. I have my mother’s ears. I have my Uncle’s smile. My oldest sister and I have the exact same eyes. I have my brothers’ temper. I am the product of a nature, a lineage that is good, is bad, and simply is what it is.

I buried my mother yesterday. This woman carried and bore me, and with regret and pain, give me up to be raised by the best family I could have asked for. For my whole life, my biological Mother never demanded a thing from me, and waited until I was ready to develop a relationship, waited for me to see her, allowed me to set the pace of the times we were together, loved me, loved my wife and my family. She gave me a family, and friends that I treasure.

I have visions of both of my mothers meeting and hugging, thanking each other, one thanking the other for raising her son in such a wonderful home, and then in turn the other thanking the first for giving up her son so their family could have a son to treasure the rest of their lives.

Most people love their families, and are proud to associate with them. I am luckier than most. I have two families of which I am proud. Proud to belong, proud to share. One family I get to share a history memories. The other I get to share blood. I AM a Peters/Dillaman. I AM a Scranton/Surrarrer. And it is good.

Rest well, beautiful woman. Rest well, my Mother. You were proud, you were strong. You faced hardships and pushed through them, raising the strongest bunch of hard-headed hill folk that I have ever known, and I am PROUD to be one of them, just as hard-headed, just as hill. You done good, you fought the good fight, and you have earned your rest. But you are not gone, and will not be forgotten. A part of you lives in me, in my brothers and sisters, in our kids and in theirs. I miss you, and I mourn not for you, but for us. Vaya con Dios, mi Madre. Walk with God. I love you.

“I am the grandson of Oscar, the spitting image of Wilma my mother, and when nighttime comes my Daddy John is still my biggest fan. That’s who I am.” Jessica Andrews here: http://youtu.be/Jd9zYKLepCw

Beth and I have been jointly dealing with difficult circumstances affecting our lives for quite a while. Little spots of joy here and there, but gloom and woe for the most part.

But yesterday. Yesterday was the best day we have had in a very long time. We talk frequently about our individual and joint love of scuba diving, and how we are really taken with the sport. In addition to other factors (and at least partly because of them) this year has been rough for diving, and I think we have less than a dozen dives each for the year. That is a pretty low number for us. In comparison, I had twenty-nine dives at this time last year.

Earlier this year, we had scheduled the only dive vacation we will be able to take in 2014, and were looking forward to the trip to North Carolina to dive with Olympus Dive Center in Morehead City (http://www.olympusdiving.com/). We first dived there last July, and really anticipated going back this year. All of the dives are shipwrecks, with several being sunk in World War II. I think two of those ships were sunk by German U-boats, and one actually is a U-boat (the U-352) sunk by a Coast Guard Cutter. Nearly all of the Olympus dives are around one-hundred feet deep, and in preparation this year, Beth and I felt we needed to get in a few dives beforehand. We planned to dive several times the week before we were to leave, but a kidney stone sidelined me. Beth buddied up with other divers, and got a couple in, so at least she was a bit prepared. Also in preparation, we had chartered a two-tank dive on Lake Erie just a few days before the North Carolina trip, but Lake Erie waves forced the Captain to call the dive (good call on his part). We travelled to North Carolina, and had a great time, but the previously chartered Lake Erie dives had not been realized. Yesterday was the makeup date.

We chartered with Lake Erie Adventure Charters, under Capt. Pete Schaefer (http://scubaerie.com/page/charters) and his crewman, Michael Moulton. They make a good team, running charters on Lake Erie through most of the summer. In addition to being able seamen, both are also NAUI (National Association of Underwater Instructors) Divemasters, certified through Diver’s World in Erie, PA (http://scubaerie.com/). Beth and I have known them for several years, and we share a deep and abiding love for the underwater world.

Matt Mead is a NAUI Instructor for Diver’s World, and Beth and I are NAUI Training Assistants that work with Matt, and Tuesday night we finished up the latest basic Scuba Diver class at Diver’s World. Regarding the charter, what this meant was that there was no way any of the three of us could get to bed early, (Matt was assigned to work the charter by Diver’s World) and so we three found ourselves somewhat deprived of sleep for the planned Wednesday charter. No worries, that’s what coffee is for. And coffee up I did.

Earlier weather reports were not promising, but the day turned out to be very pleasant, if a bit cool. Having loaded up the car on Tuesday, Beth and I staggered out of bed and got breakfast, coffee, and about a gallon of water (remember the kidney stones I mentioned earlier? Water is my friend, both to prevent the stupid little calcium oxalate rocks that plague me, and to hydrate from scuba) to go. We jumped in the car and got on the road around 7:00 AM, arrived at Lampe Marina in Erie, PA and downloaded the car. Five of us were there for the charter; myself, Beth, Matt Mead, Steve W., and Tom K. After we met up with Capt. Pete, we all loaded our gear on Pete’s boat, the For Pete’s Sake, and got on the lake, heading for the day’s diving.

As with many lake and ocean dives, weather and water conditions are often deciding factors on what sites and wrecks one can dive. Yesterday, the conditions were great, so we headed out to dive the Dean Richmond and the Indiana, both extremely cool (but relatively deep) wrecks.

Although an Advanced Diver Certification gives the basic knowledge needed for recreational deep diving, I would personally recommend that folks interested in deep diving also seek a NAUI Deep Specialty certification. Honestly, the “danger factor” isn’t that much greater at depth, but the skill set and knowledge gained from a Deep Specialty certification are invaluable. And although the deep wrecks off the North Carolina coast are in relatively warm water (in the mid-70 degrees), Lake Erie wrecks are not. Understanding how to dive deep, and how to anticipate the diving conditions and equipment needed can make all the difference in the world.

We arrived at the first dive site of the day, and assembled our gear as quickly as we could. In cold waters, Beth wears a “semi-dry” 7mm wetsuit with attached hood, 7 mm gloves, wool socks and 7mm boots. I wear a 7mm one-piece wetsuit, 7mm core warmer (front zip, sleeveless, covers from mid-thigh up) with attached hood, 7mm gloves, wool socks, and 7mm boots. This effectively gives me 14 mm of neoprene over my trunk, and believe me, this is highly welcome in cold water. After getting into our thermal protection, we finished gearing up and got into the water. Swimming to the anchor line, we vented the air from our buoyancy compensators and dropped under the water.

Lake Erie is the shallowest of the Great Lakes, and the waters are usually relatively warm. At least on the surface. As we followed the anchor line down, I watched the temps; 73 degrees on the surface, 54 degrees in the thermocline, and 41 degrees on the bottom. The thermocline, by the way, is kind of a dividing layer of water, separating the warmer surface waters from the colder bottom waters. The warmer waters are usually pretty cloudy, and visibility (known to divers as “viz”) relatively poor. Yesterday the viz was probably ten to twelve feet or so higher in the water column, which is fairly standard. Beth and I are comfortable and confident in viz like this, so it was hardly even noticeable. But when we entered the thermocline, it caught my attention, and it was pretty neat. The thermocline is often kind of “shimmery,” like looking into the distance on a hot summer day. Plus the water temp takes a sharp downturn.

We dropped through the thermocline into 41 degree water, and it took my breath away. Not because of the water temps, although that was a bit of a wake up, but because of this dive’s first glimpse of the Dean Richmond.

The “Dean” is a 238′ wooden steamer, located about eleven and a half miles off shore, nearly due north of Harborcreek, PA (see its location here on Google Maps). On October 15, 1893, she sank in a bad storm, taking eighteen men and one woman to their watery grave. She rests today, upside down, in 110′ of water. One screw was removed by salvagers in 1983, but the second screw is still attached to the shaft. To Beth and me, the Dean inspires awe each time we visit.

This is our third dive on the Dean, first diving her in 2011, and each time we go back it is the same. When I touch the thick planks, I realize I am touching history. Very few similar ships exist today, and the few that do are usually museums or memorials. To see such a sight, and to touch her is amazing. I have only found a few places that in my experience feel the same.

Have you ever visited Gettysburg? Or perhaps another similar war memorial? Or simply think of a cemetery. For me, visiting underwater wrecks is like standing on hallowed ground. I think of the purpose of the ship. Men and women sailed on her. Cargo was loaded on, in anticipation of profits from the selling at the port of destination. Perhaps folks booked passage, looking for a new life or continued business at the other end. In our dives in the Atlantic Ocean, some of the wrecks were crewed by men caught up in a global struggle, seeking the enemy to sink or destroy. Some are purposely sunk as artificial reefs in an effort to create a man-made habitat for marine life, including corals, fish, and invertebrates. However, in each case, I have the opportunity to physically touch a piece of history that probably 99 percent of the world’s population have no way of ever seeing. As I said, awe-inspiring. I count it as a privilege each and every dive, and it is not one that I take lightly.

We spent about twenty minutes on the Dean, swimming from stern to bow and back. As I do on each wreck dive, I found a convenient spot, and brushed away the algae and muck from one of the thick planks and touched her. Simply touched her. This ship sailed the Great Lakes with hopes and dreams, cargo and people. And those people were lost in a storm in 1893. I thought of the grim determination of those sailors on that cold October Sunday, the desperation, and ultimately the despair and terror as they realized they would never see their homes and families again. I wondered at their stories, what they could tell me of the lives they had led, their triumphs and dreams, their regrets, their loves.

Beth and I returned to the anchor line, and began our ascent. Having descended to about 96′, we stopped at the half-way point at around 45′ for our first safety stop (safety stops are necessary to “off-gas,” allowing accumulated nitrogen to dissipate out of our tissues and blood to prevent the “bends.”). After we hovered for four or five minutes, we again began ascending, stopping for our second safety stop at fifteen feet for 3-5 minutes. At both stops, I thought about the dive, and what an amazing time that was. And I looked at Beth, and just watched her eyes for a while. Those eyes. They captivated me when we met at Behrend College, and they captivate me still.

After our fifteen foot stop, we ascended to the surface, boarded the boat, and shed our gear. Capt. Pete and Mike raised anchor, and we travelled to our second dive site, the Indiana.

The Indiana is a 137′ three-masted wooden sailing ship (technically a barkentine), located just a short distance west of the Dean (see its location here on Google maps). Carrying paving stones from Buffalo, NY, she encountered a storm and sunk in 90′ of water on September 24, 1870. Fortunately, the crew had enough notice that they were able to abandon ship prior to her sinking at 10:00 PM. No hands were lost. She rests right-side up, with her holds open.

After a Surface Interval (also needed to prevent nitrogen-caused injury) of a bit over an hour, Beth and I again geared up, stepped off the dive deck, and into Lake Erie. We swam to the anchor line, repeating our descent of a couple of hours earlier. We again dropped through the thermocline, and onto the Indiana. What a beautiful wreck. I simply cannot describe the beauty of touching such an amazing vessel. Her fore and aft mast heads are still intact, with the masts lying across her decks, or in the sand. We were both a bit saddened at the deterioration evidenced since our last dive on her, probably due to storms and ice. She has collapsed some, and many of the paving stones have broken. But still beautiful. I again cleared the algae and muck from one of her deck planks and just touched her. Rigging was clearly visible, as were belaying pins, deadeyes (block and tackle for raising the sails), and railing. As on the Dean, the viz was astounding, and the dive unbelievable.

Unfortunately, one of the downsides of diving cold water in wetsuits is that the cold just seeps in and doesn’t dissipate as quickly as one would wish. After diving the Dean, Beth and I chilled faster on the Indiana, and only spent about sixteen minutes on her. Fortunately she is a bit smaller, so we actually made two circuits on her, stern to bow and back twice. We got to the anchor line and did an ascent pretty much identical to our earlier ascent (again those eyes!), and boarded our charter. Side note: it’s amazing how nice 58 degree water feels after just a few minutes in 41 degree water. My hands were kind of numb, and I needed the able assistance of Mike to unhook my pony bottle (a separate, redundant air supply taken on deep dives in the event the diver carrying it or a fellow diver has unwelcome complications with their primary air tank) and gearing down, but elation! What amazing dives. The seven of us stripped off our dive gear (Beth was much more modest than the rest of us, changing in the head while the males just mostly ripped off our wetsuits (or drysuit, as the case might be) without regard to anyone else’s sensibilities, dried off and got into our “regular” clothes.

As Capt. Pete motored back to Lampe, the conversation never stopped, all of us excitedly talking about the day’s dives, and throwing the occasional insult at each other, laughing and loving every minute of the day. Beth and I could not have been more pleased with our time on the For Pete’s Sake, and underwater on the Dean and the Indiana. Best dive day we have had, beginning to end, in a very long time. Camaraderie, excellent weather, and amazing dives. It doesn’t get much better than this.

Special thanks to: Diver’s World of Erie, PA; Lake Erie Adventure Charters; Erie Wrecks East by Georgann and Michael Wachter.

Here is a concern that is close to my heart. The FDA has been given permission to regulate cigars. Now, I get regulating cigarettes. They have hundreds of toxic chemicals added in addition to the tobacco products, are inhaled, and thus are an extreme health hazard. Premium cigars, not so much. Chris Kelly, owner of Leaf Lover Tobacconist in North East, PA gave me a website explaining evenhandedly and in detail all that one could need to understand the issue. I have linked to Halfwheel’s FDA page here: Halfwheel’s explanation of the proposed FDA regulations on Premium cigars.. This is a great site, and I encourage you to peruse it if you have any questions.

The FDA has proposed two Options. Option one has no exemptions for Premium cigars, would require FDA approval for any cigar introduced after 2007 (and we know how quickly such approval would be granted), and would basically destroy the entire industry. Option two is better, in that it grants exemption for Premium cigars. the problem is that the FDA proposes to define Premium cigars in a very narrow way. This is not the worst of the regulations. The two “killers” are: that a Premium cigar costs a minimum of $10.00 each; and that they “weigh more than 6 pounds per 1000 units.” Very, very few Premium cigars can meet those standards.

The FDA did state, however, that they would entertain and consider the public’s thoughts on this issue, and folks are encouraged to write them. I have composed a letter that will go in the mail today. I am asking you to write them as well, to ask the FDA to change the restrictions as it pertains to Premium cigars, and to change the definition of a Premium cigar. Feel free to use the letter that I wrote, in part or whole. Time is of the essence, we only have approximately three weeks before the FDA closes the door on public opinion, so please write to them quickly. Thank you ahead of time.

Final note: This is not the time or venue to be rude, angry, or insulting. The deed is done; the FDA has the permission of Congress to regulate the cigar industry. If you are upset over personal freedoms, please, address that with Congress. For this, I ask that you be respectful, evenhanded, and calm. That will go a lot farther when your correspondence is read.

I wanted to contact you regarding the above issue. I clearly understand the concerns with tobacco products, and the regulations for advertising and marketing cigarettes. I understand that the FDA has relatively recently been given permission to also regulate cigars as well.

Here are my thoughts.

First, I have never smoked a cigarette in my life. I believe them worthy of regulation, due not simply to the tobacco in them, but the harsh and dangerous chemicals inherent in the current making of them, and that are infused into the final product. I have, however, enjoyed Premium cigars for quite some time. Here are some of the differences:

According to the American Lung Association, cigarettes contain “approximately 600 ingredients in cigarettes. When burned, they create more than 7,000 chemicals. At least 69 of these chemicals are known to cause cancer, and many are poisonous.

Here are a few of the chemicals in tobacco smoke, and other places they are found:

Premium cigars, however, contain 100 percent tobacco and none of these chemicals. An excellent definition of “Premium Cigar” is utilized by New Hampshire in this way:

“hand-constructed and hand-rolled;
has a wrapper made entirely from whole tobacco leaf;
has a filler and binder made entirely of tobacco, except for adhesives or other materials used to maintain size, texture, or flavor; and
has a wholesale price of $2.00 or more.”

A further differentiation should also be recognized between Premium and “less than” premium cigars. Most Premium cigars contain long-leaf filler, the wrapper is whole leaf, and they are capped by hand. Further, they must be kept in an environment that is temperature and humidity controlled, usually at around 70 degrees and 65-70 percent humidity. In contrast, Non-premium cigars usually contain chopped-leaf filler, and the wrapper is liquified tobacco pulp that is pressed and dried, much like paper. They can (and are) stored anywhere. These are hardly Premium, and in my opinion, not worth the effort. My personal motto regarding cigars is that if cigars and gasoline can be purchased at the same place, don’t ever smoke the cigars. Further, Premium cigars are not marketed to, sold to or consumed by minors. Nor are Premium cigars dual use, making them useless for attempted utilization with illegal substances such as marijuana, and useful only for enjoying as is.

I am an adult citizen of the US, and I enjoy premium cigars. Most of those I enjoy are manufactured by smaller manufacturers, often known as “boutique” manufacturers. These are very much like micro breweries, which make very fine and interesting beers that are not mass-produced or mass marketed. The FDA regulations as currently written and defined for Premium cigars would have a massive impact on the boutique cigar manufacturers, and would put many out of business.

Premium cigars are one of my passions, as well as a wonderful means of relaxation. I enjoy them occasionally and socially, and find the entire experience nearly zen-like. I enjoy the flavor, the visual impact of a cigar (how it is rolled, the lines of the leaf, the color or the wrapper and ash), and the time it takes to fully enjoy a Premium cigar, often approximately an hour or more.

Please register my concern and lack of support for the current proposed FDA regulations concerning Premium Cigars. Due to the above concerns, I am wholeheartedly opposed to the regulations. I would request that Premium cigars be exempted from the proposed (and finalized) regulations, and that the definitions concerning Premium cigars be modified as above, with the addition that they “weigh 3 pounds or more per 1000 units,” not the 6 pounds per 1000 units as currently proposed.

My sister died today. She was born on October 28, 1942, to our parents, John and Myrtle Peters. Like parents everywhere, they were excited, and could not wait to see their child. However, medical practices were different then, and when our Mother had a hard labor, believing in “letting nature take its course,” her doctor let it go on. When JoAnne was born, her umbilical cord was wrapped around her neck, shutting off oxygen for some period of time. She was still alive, and in an effort to help, they put her in an oxygen tent. However, that day harmed JoAnne in two ways. First, her brain had been starved of air to the point that she was mentally handicapped. Second, medical science found later that pure oxygen has a very harmful effect on a newborns’ eyes; JoAnne was also visually impaired as a result of the oxygen tent.

Dad was away fighting in World War II when JoAnne was born, and I was told that when he came back, he was unable to have more children. Which was lucky for me, since fifteen years after JoAnne was born, they adopted me.

Growing up, JoAnne was no different in my estimation than anyone else’s older sister would be. She was a pain. Fussing at me, pointing out to our parents that I hadn’t taken my required vegetables as they were passed, preempting the TV to watch Lawrence Welk when there were shows on that were much more appealing to a teenage male. But she was my sister. I loved her, cared about her, and I can say that I was never embarrassed by her at school functions or anywhere else when we were out in public.

I grew up, graduated High School, went to Penn State, found the love of my life, married, got a job, had kids, matured. JoAnne stayed the same. Folks with mental disabilities (or challenges, if you prefer) are people just like any others. Some are nice, some are not. Some are loud, some quiet. Some sweet, some, well, more vinegar. JoAnne was the sweetest person I have ever known. Mentally, she was maybe five years old, but she was always simply a sweetheart. I don’t know how else to say it. Beth said it better than I when she wrote, “She was selfless and taught me much about the inner beauty of individuals by looking beyond the outward appearance and seeing their hearts, the way that God sees and values them.” But as sweet as she was, JoAnne also knew she was not like other people. I remember when my own children were born, JoAnne said, “I hope they don’t grow up different like me.” My heart broke for her.

As my parents aged, they realized that at some point they would not be able to care for JoAnne, so they were able to find a home for her in the L’Arche Community in Erie, PA. L’Arche is an amazing organization started in France by a Catholic priest for the express purpose of caring for the mentally handicapped. And what a home it turned out to be. Absolutely dedicated to their “core members,” the staff (they call themselves assistants) are the most zealous advocates for their charges that one could ask. Each core member lives in a home with a few other core members, and assistants to provide any services needed. With the help of L’Arche, JoAnne travelled, going to Nashville a couple of times, California, Branson, Florida, and she even got a passport and went to France twice. I know I have probably left some out, but you get the idea. They took her bowling during season, and heaven help me if I tried to get her to miss her bowling night. Each core member cooks a weekly meal, helps with laundry, shopping, you name it. The assistants will see that each core member goes to the church service of their choice, if they wish, and JoAnne did. She went to church every week. In other words, she led a “normal” life. And she was happy. She blossomed living in the L’Arche community, and was even sweeter as a result. She could be funny, making cracks (usually at my expense) that never failed to make me laugh. She enjoyed our company, and we enjoyed hers.

Life is as it is, and we didn’t get to spend as much time with her as I would have wished, but I guess that’s the case with most siblings.

JoAnne had been sick for the past couple months, getting better, then worse, into the hospital, getting discharged, and then back in again. She was finally diagnosed with Addison’s disease, and started the necessary medication to treat it. However, last week she wound up back in the hospital, and they simply couldn’t figure out what was wrong. She started slipping, and it has been hard to watch. Her discomfort, and confusion were hard to bear. She started retaining fluids, and she began to shut down. Finally, the only thing left for the hospital to do was to release her to her home, as she had been wanting. Monday evening she was released and went back to her home, with hospice caring for her as needed. As soon as she got home, JoAnne was nearly instantaneously more relaxed and easy. However, each day she continued her decline, and this morning we received the phone call letting us know she was gone. Beth and I went in to see her and say goodbye, smoothing her hair, weeping. We made it through the day, thinking mostly of JoAnne and being sad.

During supper, I was stunned when I realized that this is permanent. I’m not going to hear her voice again. We won’t have her out for Thanksgiving, Christmas, New Years. I’ll never again be able to tease her about her most hated food, sauerkraut, and she will never again remind me, “Don’t forget to shave,” her standard post script when we were saying goodbye after a visit.

My sister is gone now, and I must let her go. I do believe in an afterlife, and I do believe in the saving grace of Christ our King. I believe that JoAnne is whole now, not in pain, not “different,” a perfect soul, created in God’s own image. I believe she has a better understanding of heaven than I ever will in this life. And for her, I could not be happier. As for me, and Beth, and Sarah and Laura, JoAnne’s L’Arche family, our Aunt Phoebe, our cousins and friends, we are the ones left behind. We are the ones that must mourn. And I miss my sister.

As usual, life has been difficult. I suppose I should understand that to be the norm, but somehow it often seems to catch me by surprise.

Part of the problem is that ever since I was a little boy, I have recognized fairness as a desired quality. My mother used to tell me that I would come home from school upset when someone suffered some unfairness. And though I tried to train my daughters to not expect life to be fair I didn’t, in the core of me, believe it. I still expect life to be fair, even though I know intellectually that it just ain’t so. Can you spell “conflict?”

I should probably make it clear that I am not complaining here. This is just a list of observations and my experiences.

We have a new President at Edinboro University. And any time there is a change like that, be it a new CEO at a corporation, a new pastor at church, or a new president at an institution of higher education, there are changes made and change should be expected. New priorities, new directions, new expectations both written and just understood. That is not to say that the process is easy. There will always be a state of flux until the water stops sloshing and reaches equilibrium (I have no idea how I could have mixed any more metaphors in this sentence). And easy it has not been.

Although my position is rather large and rather important, I am still middle management. And middle management is always getting pounded. Again, not a complaint. I recognized this fact coming in, and it is just a reality.

So work has been difficult. In addition to my normal (rather hefty plate of) responsibilities, I have had a shift in priorities and expectations. This is never easy for me. I like routine. I am comfortable with having the same tasks and expectations. Example: every morning my wife fixes me a breakfast burrito to eat in the car on the way to work. Variations on that are fine, but I am perfectly content to have the same thing every day.

I went on vacation this year from April 6 through April 15. Beth and I scheduled with our local scuba store to go to Little Cayman for a week of Caribbean diving, sun, and relaxation. Didn’t work out quite like that. Well, I need to clarify that. The diving and the sun were fantastic. Healthy reefs, coral, plenty of beautiful fish. We saw a lot of “old friends,” and a lot of “new friends,” too. I only saw one drum fish, and not one secretary blenny or flamingo tongue slug. However, we saw at least one queen triggerfish on every dive we did! Very cool. The weather was nearly perfect; hot and sunny, every single day. The resort, amazing. Great accommodations. Each of us had our own rooms, so there was no sharing of a suite. Nice. And the food! As I understand it, they have a gourmet chef, so breakfast, lunch and dinner were unbelievable. Two free drinks per day were included as well. Considering that is about my max, and Beth doesn’t drink, they didn’t lose a lot of money on us with that, but it was a great perk. And the company was fantastic. Great people to dive with and hang out with. If you ever want to go to Little Cayman, you could not do better than Little Cayman Beach Resort.

Normally, and this year was no different, I kind of depend on my vacation time to decompress and fill my tank so to speak. However, as great as all of the above was, the vacation did not help. I developed bronchitis just before we left, and was on z-pack until April 9. By evening of the 9th, I had a nasty sinus infection that I just had to push through until we got home. The dive boat we were originally on had a bad leak in the exhaust, and seven of us got violently sick on The first dive of the week on Sunday morning. On the plus side, we set a resort record for number of sick on one trip. Woo! NOT.

After I came down with the sinus infection on Tuesday, I looked at our dive itinerary. We had signed up to dive the Capt. Keith Tibbetts on Cayman Brac on Thursday. Not wanting to miss that, I opted out of diving all day Wednesday. It was a good decision, as I was able to dive Thursday and Friday, but missing three Caribbean dives was not what I had gone there for.

The return home also proved difficult. On Little Cayman, there was a mix up with our bags that I had to work to fix. The lines at the airport on Grand Cayman were overly and unnecessarily long, and Beth and I barely got through security in time for our flight to Philadelphia. However we got to Philly, and waited a few hours for our connector to Erie. The plane was on time, and boarded on schedule. Unfortunately, Beth and I, along with four of our dive compadres, were refused boarding and had to stay the night in Philly. I have, by the way, sent this on to US Airways as a complaint, and have yet to hear from them. We will see if they are honorable about this or not. Stay tuned.

Because of the issues during vacation, I returned nearly as stressed as when I left. And last week was the “welcome back” from hell. There was an issue at work that happened while I was on vacation, and although I couldn’t have effected a change or a different outcome, I was expected to have taken care of it; I got into a shouting match on the phone with my boss (never a good career enhancer); and a couple other incidents occurred at work that I was expected to handle differently than I did (remember that “flux” I talked about?). There were seriously two or three days last week that I just wasn’t sure I would be employed at the end of the day.

And although work has been hard before throughout my various careers, I have usually had things to fall back on, things to divert me. But now my normal crutches have been taken away.

I love cigars no secret there. However, after my neck surgery (fusion of C5 to C6 and C6 to C7), my surgeon, uh, “disallowed” cigars until the fusion is complete, hopefully by the end of May. Some silliness about carbon dioxide and nicotine inhibiting oxygen absorption and bone growth or something. So cigars are out, and that is difficult. For me, there is something deeply relaxing in enjoying a quality cigar for an hour; relaxing, contemplative, nearly zen. Seriously.

In just the past few years I have discovered microbrew beer. Not the normal nasty American macros, but fine, flavorful micros. Now that is a fine topic for a future blog! For now, suffice it to say that I recognize that I need to be cautious with my new hobby. It would be easy to get lost in the beer, but that is, I am afraid, far too close to the edge for me. So, although relaxing, I have to put well-defined boundaries and limits on my beer consumption. Not always the easiest for me, but necessary.

Further, we have a small group of friends from church that we meet with almost weekly. We call this small group “Small Group.” Pretty clever, huh? And although I will deny it if you tell them, I love this group of people. We have seen each other through some pretty devastating situations, and they could not be more like family to me if we were blood. For various reasons, the past couple of months have been difficult for all of us in that group. No solace there.

Finally, I enjoy the computer game Civilization V. A couple of years ago I purchased a pretty upscale laptop specifically for Civ V, and I can get lost for hours. Beth says I am addicted, but I can quit any time I want. Really. I just choose to play as much as I do. Well, maybe I do kind of like to play it a lot. In any event, my laptop is down, and has been at the computer shop for three weeks, two days, and twelve hours. But who’s counting. No Civ.

I have been left with nothing to fall back on. No crutch, no salve. It feels like there is little but difficulty and hardship. And I wonder if that isn’t exactly where I need to be.

Beth and I were talking this morning, and her observation was that it has been hard for her as well. She didn’t sleep as well as she would have liked last night, and during one of her wakeful times, she said that she wondered just how centered her life has been on God lately. Her conclusion was, “not much.” And she recognizes that she needs to change that situation.

Hmm.

One of my favorite passages in the Bible is where Peter is in prison. I think I have said in the past that I like how Paul thinks; his logic, his orderly progression. John, not so much John is, to me, a bit of a goof; circular logic (which is no logic at all in my book), mystical, squishy touchy feely. Ick. But Peter? Oh, he’s the man! Hard charging, hard-headed, willing to leap in without even wondering what such a jump will cost. Peter is 100%. You never have to wonder where you stand with Peter. Peter is me. Up to, and including denying my Christ at critical times. Thank God it isn’t about me, but instead it’s about God’s grace and love.

But in this particular Bible story, Peter is in prison. Hopeless. An angel appears to him, and tells Peter to put on his shoes, which Peter does. The angel leads him out of prison, through the doors that the angel has opened, and past the guards to freedom. Now the point of this story for me, is that the angel did what Peter couldn’t; open the gates, shut down the guards. However, he told Peter to do what Peter could. Specifically, “put on your shoes.” I have struggled with that metaphor for a long time. I feel it is incumbent on me to “do what I am able to do,” and depend on God for what I am not able to do. We are all born with abilities and talents. I believe we are to use them to the best that we are able. But where does that stop, and my dependence on God begin? How much am I to “confidently go forth,” and how much am I to “give all to God?” And how do I have “joy in the struggle?” ‘Cause I gotta tell you, I’m not real joyful right now.

There’s a song out that does a nice job of describing where I am. This is from Tenth Avenue North’s album, “Struggle.” Please listen to this, it says it perfectly. I’m not stuck, this too shall pass. The day will dawn, the sun shall rise, hope springs eternal. But for now,

Hang on, dig in, strap down, get set. I am going to state a truism that may just rock your world. Ready? Here it is: Life is hard. Yep, I’m sorry to be the one to break it to you, but there it is. Life is hard and there is nothing to be done about it. “Life is pain Highness. Anyone that tells you otherwise is trying to sell you something.”

When I was young (Wait. I meant younger) I thought I was ready for anything that life had to throw at me. I thought I would chew it up and spit it out. Little did I know just how painful life can be. Let me describe what I mean.

I met Beth at Behrend College of Penn State in 1975. Through her feminine wiles, we soon fell in love and planned our life together. Long walks, long talks, gazing into each others’ eyes, we did all those dewy, romantic and saccharine things that young couples often do when they fall in love. Objectively speaking, our romance was (and remains) the best and finest romance in the history of the world. And I wouldn’t trade one single minute for anything.

We married in 1978 (see, Beth? I do too remember) and started with nothing more than an old Chevy Impala given to us by my folks, a cat, and love. What a grand start to a marriage! We moved to northwestern Pennsylvania and I found a job in, of all places, a donut factory on my way to my life-long dream job of being a policeman. I got into police work over thirty years ago, and the trials and travails Beth and I experienced could have wrecked us multiple times. But from the beginning, we both loved God more than anything, and have worked to make Him, and Him alone, the focus and center of our marriage.

Children came along, planned and anticipated. Loved, adored, and our pride and joy. We raised them “purposely and intentionally,” a catch phrase with a set of our closest friends; a catch phrase, but describes our parenting very nicely. Everything we did with them was intended to be a life’s lesson, to instruct them and to train and prepare them for everything that life was going to throw at them. Clearly we were not perfect, and there are innumerable moments I wish I could take back, change, re-do. But we’re not given that option, are we? Even so, no one has ever loved their children more, or worked harder to raise their children to be the best they could be. I went back to school part-time, and worked toward my Master’s Degree from Mercyhurst College in Erie, PA. I found that I enjoyed my class work (as opposed to my undergrad experience) and excelled. Of course, I devoted a ton of time to my school work to do so, but enjoyed it none the less.

In the mid-1980’s, I joined the Erie Police Department in Erie, PA. Having come from a small police department where every sneeze and belch was noted and scrutinized, when I moved to a larger department I was like a kid in a candy store. I had more fun than anyone had a right to. But all things change, and even good things have a habit of diminishing. I finished my Master’s degree program and eventually left the street to become a detective, then a Detective Sergeant working Homicides, bank robberies with FBI agents, Presidential protection details with the Secret Service, Special Weapons and Tactics (SWAT), just about any cool thing that one could desire. I had a “patron” that was guiding me in the ways of politics within the city, and I was moving toward higher ranks; meeting people, shaking hands, joining clubs and organizations.

During this time I also worked in our church. I found myself elected to the Deacon board, which at the time was kind of a combined Elder/Deacon position. We made policy for the church, as well as watching for the immediate spiritual needs of our brothers and sisters in the congregation. As was typical, I threw myself into it, and spent a lot of time working for the church.

As are many men, I am driven to excel at whatever task I take on. And for most of the things I try, I push myself until I’m pretty good at whatever it is I am doing. However, as I pushed and struggled to advance, I noticed something. My daughters were in High School, perhaps only a few years from graduating and moving on. And I hardly knew them.

I remembered some of the ideals that Beth and I had as young marrieds and as young parents, and I did not want to look back and regret the time that I devoted to my job; I did not want to regret the time that I should have given to my children. So I did something that was very difficult for me. I took myself off the fast track at work. Man was I disappointed. But, I thought, at least I had my church and my family. Family, church, and work. I measured myself as a successful man by these three things.

Oops, one down. I intentionally gave work away, but that’s ok. I still had the other two. I convinced myself that as long as I “succeeded” at church and family, I was ok. Work was actually the third on the list anyway, so I could be less than at the pinnacle there and still be a success at the other two. However, church is a funny thing; it’s filled with people. And people are the same no matter where they happen to be located. I dealt with good folks and mean folks all across the spectrum. I dealt with issues that I wish I had never known about. Ultimately I kind of flamed out with leadership in church, too. When my term as Deacon expired, I did not seek re-election, and I am not sure how eager I am even now, twenty-something years later, to repeat that experience.

Two down. But I still have my family. And this is the most important of the three. As long as I “succeed” at family, I still have worth in my eyes. I am still a “successful” man.

You kind of see what’s coming, right?

I had read a book once that described a father’s raising his family, and essentially his thoughts were that no matter what success he had elsewhere, if he didn’t raise his children well, what good is he? I agreed with that, and worked accordingly.

Now before I continue, I want to make clear that I love my children. With my whole heart, mind, soul, and strength. Nothing has ever changed that, and nothing ever will. Further, I need not detail more than this. They are good people, working to be the best that they can envision themselves to be. I am proud of them and their accomplishments. Suffice it to say here that they have chosen to walk a couple of paths that I would not have chosen for them. Their lives, their decisions. I respect that and will support them, love them, help them to the best that I am able.

I think that at least in part, I took their “contrary” decisions personally, that it was my responsibility for where they have chosen to be. Of course, each of us will ultimately take ownership of our choices and decisions, but at the time, I keenly felt that I was an abject failure as a father. And for me that was strike three. I was a failure as a man.

Some people turn to drink, some people may become even more spiritual, some turn to other outlets to ease the pain. I have had several.

For years I have struggled with, shall we say, less wholesome outlets. I honestly don’t know how teens can cope with the internet. One can instantly find just about anything one would care to find. With all that one can access today via the internet, I wouldn’t have survived as a teen. Anyhow, through a lot of prayer, working with several dedicated and spiritual men, this particular area is much less difficult for me than it once was.

But there were other ways that one can feel momentarily better. Food is one of my biggest struggles. I love food. I love the smell of good food, I love the taste of food and its texture as I roll it through my mouth, I love the satisfying feel of a full stomach. And Beth is honestly the best cook I have ever known.

For a while this wasn’t as big a problem as it could be. Although my metabolism had been slowing down, I was pretty active. Being on the SWAT team was pretty demanding, and I had to stay in some semblance of shape, so even though I ate big, I burned a lot of it at the same time. Also, at 6’3″, I can hide it pretty well. This changed a bit when I retired from the team. I ballooned to an all-time high of 260 pounds of unadulterated cellulose, and looked every bit like the chubby hubby that I was.

I had other outlets as well. I am a very sensual guy. I love taste, texture, beauty, scents. I love trying new things. I love learning. So when I find something new that tastes great, smells great, and has nuance, I dive in. Especially if it’s not something that a ton of people do. I discovered craft beer and I discovered cigars. Both are topics of endless discussion for me, I can talk for hours about either. For the record, my buddy Matt makes the best beer I have tried; second is Founder’s Breakfast Stout or perhaps Great Divide’s Yeti Imperial Stouts. Oh, man! For cigars, my go to is always an Ashton, and specifically an Ashton Double Magnum, although I love all kinds of cigars at different times. If you’re interested, go see Chris at Leaf Lover’s Tobbaconist in North East, PA for a great cigar. And remember my advice. If you can buy cigars and gasoline at the same location, don’t buy the cigars!!

Anyhow, along with Scuba diving, these were the outlets I used to “cope” with life’s little surprises. I was a far cry from that twenty-one year old that thought he could handle everything. Essentially, it looks like I can’t handle much of anything. Or maybe life just kept throwing its little surprises until I was broken down. Whatever, I was at a point that I needed help with coping. But I didn’t like where I was. That having been said, I think I need to clarify here. As long as this post turns out to be, it is still a very abbreviated version of all this. This entire process kind of evolved over the past twenty years or so, and I am condensing it here to a couple of thousand-ish words. Also, it may look like I was just a total wreck. Not so, but I had come to lean on tangibles, not on inner strength and God’s power.

So, here I was. A failure at work, a failure at church, a failure with my family. “Needing” food, scuba, beer, and cigars. So what happened next? Earlier this year I looked at a couple of photos taken of me, and man, I did not like what I saw. This guy’s a fatty! Beth and I both decided it was time, so we embarked on a weight loss and life style change. Although I started at a lower weight than my all time high, since May, I have lost about thirty pounds with ten to go to my goal. Beth has done even better. I think we both look great, and the next step is to get back to the gym and get in shape.

Food’s gone as a crutch.

Beer has been assuming an increasingly anticipated portion of my life. And I don’t mean nasty or cheap beer. You folks that drink Bud lite or Coors, well, you have my pity. Micros are the bomb! So many different breweries, so many different styles, combinations of hops and malts, I could easily live in a Brewpub. Wait. Clark, what did you just say? Did you hear yourself?

Beth pointed out to me a bit ago that I was consuming more beer than I had before. She wasn’t yet alarmed exactly, but she was kind of concerned. Her concern was justified. Although in comparison to many I didn’t drink much at all, and although in comparison to Europeans I hardly drink anything, I was still using the beer as a crutch. Clark, what are you doing? Yep, I need to cut back. And although I have no intention to cease, my beer consumption has hugely diminished.

Beer’s gone. But I still have my last stronghold, I still have my cigars.

You can see what’s coming, right? Hey, didn’t I already say that?

Many people would say this explains a great deal, but as a teen, I fell on my head a couple of times. Looking back, I probably fractured my spine, but as I could get up and move, I never went to the hospital or even saw a doctor. Fast forward four decades or so, and I now have two degenerative discs. After several years of chiropractic therapy and numerous pain shots, I had my neck fused four months ago on two levels; C-5 to C-6, and C-6 to C-7. The surgery went great, the chronic pain is gone, and the healing has been fine. But. My scuba season ended on the date of my surgery, and I probably won’t get back under water (except for assisting classes of new divers in the pool) until spring.

We went back to my surgeon last Monday. After x-rays, he showed me that the higher level is about 99% healed; essentially completely healed. The lower level, not as much. He gave me a few restrictions, and said that he wasn’t concerned at all, and that the only way he would be concerned at all is if I was a smoker, which I am not. I told him that I haven’t touched a cigarette in my life, but that I do have an occasional cigar. At that point he kind of stared at me, hesitated a second, and said, “You need to stay away from those.”

Ok, I get it. Nicotine restricts blood vessels and inhibits the uptake of oxygen, both needed for healing. I won’t smoke a cigar for months. But that was my last tangible support. I am now officially left with nothing to fall back on, nothing to look forward to (And let’s be totally clear. When I say that, I mean outside my marriage. Our marriage is still great, and getting better every day!). When he said that, I felt like my last pillar was knocked down, my bridge was collapsing. I was bereft. Even Beth felt bad for me, and she is not, shall we say, the biggest fan of my cigars.

So what do I do? As I see it, I don’t have a lot of choices here. My only choice is the one I should have made long ago. My only choice is to depend on God’s grace; first, last, everywhere. A few years ago I coined a phrase that I have tried to utilize. I kind of forgot it, but I’m gonna pick it back up. That phrase is this. Let it go, it doesn’t belong to you. So this is what I am left with, this is what I want to do, what I want to continually tell myself. Let it go, it doesn’t belong to you. I need to give it to God, let it go, live in Him. Fill me Father. Fill me with You. You God. All You. Nothing but You.

I don’t know why it is necessary to be painted into a corner to see that one cannot “do this” on one’s own, but I would not be surprised to find that this is rather common. Even if not, I often find that it is the case for me. I’ve been cornered, and I have nothing that I can use to defend myself. I figure I can go in one of three directions. I can collapse into a puddle of emotional plasma, I can fall back on one of the less healthy things that I used to fall back on, or I can let go and look to the Author and Protector. I think I’ll look to Jesus.

But boy do I want a cigar. Let it go, Clark. It doesn’t belong to you. Yeah, I know…

I have taken a break from Facebook. After the election, I was hoping this would not happen, but the “end zone celebration” I saw from some was disheartening. And I was so heartbroken over the results that I just needed to distance myself for a time. I posted a couple of thoughts after the election, but since Wednesday I have seldom visited FB.

Wednesday morning, after the 2012 Presidential election, quite sincerely I posted the following on Facebook:

Brief thoughts on the election:

1) I am VERY happy for my friends that were pulling for Obama. Many were really invested in a win by him, and for them, I am truly happy. I do hope that all this silliness of “voter fraud,” disenfranchisement” and so on will be put to rest.

2) God is still on his throne. He did not wake up this morning, check the paper, slap his forehead and say, “Holy crap! …How did this happen?” He knows, he watches, and no matter who is the President of the US, He directs the course of history.

3) I worry for America. I believe we will be looking at a radically (not in the political sense) different country. In my opinion, we have slid a long way since the “Shining City on a Hill” that we were under Reagan.

4)I am disgusted with the Republican party that they cannot present a candidate that espouses conservative principles. I mean TRULY conservative principles. When done properly, conservative principles resonate with every voter group in the US.

5) I like cats. A lot. As much as I like dogs, maybe a bit more. This is perhaps a bit unusual for conservative types, so I am hoping when the liberal zombie police come to eat the livers of all good conservatives, maybe they’ll give my house a pass because I like cats. (kidding, people)

6) I still like good beer, and it is there for our enjoyment. I don’t care what one’s political position is, if you make good beer, we are best buds. Although, I MIGHT direct certain friends toward skunky beer due to their politics. *cough SteveS*

Of course I was being humorous with the last couple points, but the first four were completely serious. I woke up on Wednesday to an America for which I fear. I prayed more sincerely for President Obama than I probably have in the previous four years. I prayed for America, for my children, for my wife, myself, my friends and family.

I started musing on this about a week ago with a post from a liberal friend of mine. He had posted a “Nation of Change” article written by Robert Reich. Read the article here: “We the People, and the New American Civil War”. I had wanted to comment, but my thoughts were far too detailed to present in Facebook’s format.

First, a personal disclaimer regarding Mr. Reich. Robert Reich was in Bill Clinton’s cabinet as the Secretary of Labor. If one asked him, I believe he would say that politically he is a Moderate. But I have trouble with that. His background, his education, his statements all indicate to me that he is definitely liberal, and comes from a liberal perspective. So, I have a problem with him right there. Whatever one’s politics, my preference is that one be honest. Call it “Liberal” or “Progressive,” be honest about your stance.

In his article, Mr. Reich’s point is that our main challenge as a nation is for all of us “to rediscover the public good,” and what he indicates is that we need to meet more in the middle, and basically disregard the far right and the far left. There are several problems with Mr. Reich’s article, and I believe Mr. Reich to be much closer to the “far left” than he pretends to be.

In his first paragraph, talking about the vitriol of the latest Presidential campaigns, he feels that it is “Worse than the Palin-induced smarmy 2008. Worse than the swift-boat lies of 2004…” The problem is that in 2008 the only vitriol that I recall was toward Palin, not because of her. The hatred, vicious name-calling, and sexualizing of Mrs. Palin was truly appalling, and had it been a woman of the Democrat party being treated as she was by someone of the conservative persuasion, the howling and backlash would have been heard around the world, and yet how she was treated is apparently ok according to liberal standards (side note: I am not speaking of all liberals, I have many liberal friends that I cherish and trust. When I speak of liberals here, I am talking about what I see nation wide, in the media, and in the entertainment industry). Further, nothing that the swift-boat veterans said was inaccurate or lies. These were valiant men, serving with distinction in a miserable conflict. These men came forward and testified against the 2004 Democrat candidate for President and his claims of serving with distinction. And that is their crime. They disputed the only veteran the Democrat party has been proud of since the Vietnam war. And that is because he publicly denounced, not only the war, but the men who served in it. These men came forward, knowing they would be reviled, to set the record straight. And Reich calls them liars.

Second paragraph: Mr. Reich recognizes the many divisions in America, including “whether women should have control over their bodies, ” speaking of abortion, and I agree with him that the divisions he speaks of are not new. However, the issue of abortion is not simply that of whether women should have control over their bodies, any more than the Civil War was just a conflict over state’s rights. This is a topic that rates its own blog at some point, I suppose, but for now, suffice it to say that Mr. Reich oversimplified it here, and I believe he likely does it purposely. Or else it is that simple in his mind. Either way, I think it is telling.

I like what he said about things being more separated, geographically and online; this may have a spark of truth. It does seem that we have clustered as conservatives and liberals, without a ton of contact. However, I think that if one is seeking, regardless of political persuasion, relationship with people, it is actually easier to find than before. Many of my liberal friends I have found on Facebook. I enjoy spirited, passionate debate on issues (clearly, they never win, but it’s only because their feeble arguments wither in the presence of my stunning repartee, and the blinding logic of my positions. Right guys? Hey! Did you ever notice when one is correct, one says, “right?” One never says “left.” Kidding guys. Love you all!) with a number of committed liberals, who are just as convinced of their position as am I. We respect one another’s positions, thoughts, and backgrounds. I find that I am actually more brutal with those with whom agree than I am with those that disagree. I insist that my friends be shown respect and consideration, and I try to moderate the debates with those ideals.

In paragraph six, of Mr. Reich’s article he mentions Edward R. Murrow and Walter Cronkite, and proclaims both of them to be “ultimate arbiters of truth.” I cannot speak of Murrow, as that was quite some time before me. However, I understand that his fall from grace with CBS happened when Murrow bitterly complained that CBS was giving equal time to individuals on the opposite side of the issues he criticized. Further, Cronkite broadcast also at a time in which he was not the “ultimate” arbiter of the truth, but the only arbiter of the truth. Both men had, and enjoyed, unfettered and unopposed voices in what they presented to the public. And this I believe, is the actual problem. Mr. Reich goes on to attack Fox News and Rush Limbaugh as eagerly exploiting the anger and frustration of the “white working-class.” Mr. Reich calls them “pedlars of petulance,” and states that many of today’s politicians have “gained political power by fanning the flames.”

But I believe that Mr. Reich is emblematic of what the actual problem is here. I believe what he is actually upset about (and I doubt he would agree, or even recognize this) is that conservatives actually have a voice. Conservatives have avenues to get the news that are not controlled by those with whom they disagree. Avenues that are not presenting only one viewpoint. Fox News in particular is reviled by the left, and often cited for its “lies.” Does Fox News lie? Most of the “lies” presented are merely a different viewpoint from the person making that claim, and often, inspection finds that they aren’t lies at all. Further, Limbaugh, although sometimes bombastic, seldom presents anything that could be accused of being a blatant untruth.

I remember when I first heard Rush Limbaugh. It was probably close to twenty years ago, and at the time, I hated talk radio, and I only tuned in because a friend suggested I do so. When I listened to Limbaugh’s show, I nearly wept. I honestly thought that I was one of the few people in the entire world that believed as I did, but here was a man speaking from a position that resonated with me. I continue to listen to Limbaugh, not to “get the truth,” but because in my opinion, he presents the truth. Do I agree with all he says? No, but it’s not that difficult to separate that stuff out, and I think most can do the same.

Same with Fox News. Is it biased? Yep, but they make no bones about it, as opposed to CNN, MSNBC, CBS, ABC, and on and on. Nearly every news outlet has a slant or bias, but my frustration is that they refuse to admit it. I would have much more respect for any of the above if they would admit their bias, and work to present the other side. Fox News has a list of liberal commentators and contributors that clearly and cogently present the liberal viewpoint. As far as I have seen, the other networks may have a token conservative or two, but no one noteworthy, and very few that are taken seriously by anyone.

Here is the problem. The “left” has become the new “center.” and “meeting in the middle” means capitulating with the liberal position. Vitriol? That expressed against those with a conservative position is unrivaled and more frightening than anything one hears from a conservative position. Express a conservative thought or position? You are at best uncaring, and more likely a hateful, angry person. None of the conservative entertainers or commentators express the hate and anger expressed by liberals in the same industry, and yet those on the left are defended, and their jokes draw long, sustained laughter. Very seldom (and I am being generous, here) are they castigated for their words, let alone punished or an apology demanded. List something Limbaugh said that was hurtful and I can list ten from top liberals. And I can almost bet that Limbaugh apologized for what he said, unlike the comments from the other side of the aisle.

This post is not intended to be an apologetic for Fox News or Rush Limbaugh. And I intentionally oversimplified the issues. My intent is to describe my thoughts on the political divide in which we find ourselves, and the disparity I see between left and right. In today’s world, the NRA (National Rifle Association) is not a member-driven group intent on protecting one of our basic Constitutional rights, it is an extremist organization. Focus on the Family is not an organization seeking to preserve the family as the Biblical center of our society, it is a hate group. This is a clear shift in where the country has come from. Those who believe that the Bible is the inspired Word of God are not sincerely trying to follow God’s design for their lives, they are dangerous haters, trying to shove their zealous religious beliefs down people’s throats.

I am not a Luddite. I love technology, and love many aspects of where our society is right now. However, I believe there has been a shift in our society, and one that I do not see as altogether good. I believe that we must show dignity to all, regardless of viewpoint. However, it seems to me that the pendulum has swung to where those with a conservative viewpoint are increasingly seen as loony, stupid, or mean, or some combination of the three.

After the recent election, I found that I despair for our country. President Obama was elected back into that office, and now has four more years to work on his vision of America. And I believe that vision to be bad news for our country. Call it Socialist, Statist, or simply Progressive, it doesn’t much matter, it amounts to much the same thing. I believe we will see more confiscation of wealth (but not from liberal celebrities). I believe we will see an expansion of government’s role in our lives. I believe we will see the declining of America’s prestige in the world. I believe we will see a reduction in the military. I believe we will see more, not less, terrorism. I believe we are in more danger economically, socially, and physically than ever before. We are a Representative Republic. And the president has been re-elected. And I fear for what that means for all of us.

First, I must confess to being an unabashed Conservative in the mold of Ronald Reagan. I have been, since High School. And for those counting, that’s at least thirty-seven years. In fact, I invited President Ford to my High School graduation (I still have his “thank you” around here somewhere). And I have always loved the military. Understand, as a career police officer, I have known guys that love to hang around cops, are dazzled by cops, gravitate to cops. So I’m not like that with those that serve, or have served in the military. But I respect them and honor them (and their families) for their service.

My Father was drafted into the Army in WWII. He never talked about his time in the Army much, but every now and then I could get him to tell a story or two. I know he was in France. I know he was tapped to go to Officer Candidate School but turned them down. I know he was a foot soldier under Patton’s crew for a while. I know he shot at people, and (I presume) was shot at in return. One of the things he was happiest about regarding his time in Europe was that he could honestly say that “he didn’t know if he ever killed anybody,” which, if one reads between the lines, meant he was in some engagements somewhere.

I remember as a kid finding the few mementos he kept; some collar brass, a compass in a leather pouch, shoulder stripes. I played with them endlessly, imagining myself to be in the middle of “the action.” Of course, like most American kids, I had no idea what that meant. I only knew that at the time, I thought my Dad, my uncle, and everyone else that I knew that had served was a hero (of course, that has not changed. Ever.).

I had always wondered what medals Pop might be due, but it wasn’t until after he died that I actually looked into it. There was an address that I found that would supply those medals earned and awarded, so I sent the required information, and promptly forgot that I had done so. A few weeks later, a rather stuffed package came in the mail from an address that I didn’t recognize. Upon opening it, I discovered that it contained my Father’s medals from World War II. He had earned several, including Victory in Europe, Occupation of Germany, things like that. However, he also had gotten a Purple Heart (he would have said that was for trench foot). The largest I saved for last. I opened it up, and my heart nearly broke. My Father, as a rather low-ranking Sergeant drafted as a farm boy into the Army, had been awarded the Bronze Star. Included with the medals was the paperwork citing what he had done to earn the medals. However, there was a problem.

Many years ago, there was a rather extensive fire in a government warehouse that destroyed many, many of the records of military men and women. My father’s was one of those. The only thing salvaged of my father’s records was the page listing what he was due, with nothing saying what he had done to earn them. Even the page with the medals awarded him was scorched and incomplete. So, with Dad dead and buried, there is little I know to do to find out what he had done to be awarded the Bronze Star. But I was right. My Dad is a hero.

So I have always loved and respected the military. I graduated High School in 1975, and close to my graduation date I called the Army recruiting office to see what I needed to do to enlist. I remember my heart was pounding, and I was as nervous as I could possibly be. At that time, I didn’t immerse myself in politics as I do now, and was only partly aware of stuff, although I think I knew more of what was going on than I might think I did. Anyhow, Viet Nam was pretty much the defining event of my generation, and that was in my mind as I called the recruiter. And I got the oddest response I have ever had, and certainly not the one I expected. He told me, “Don’t bother, kid. The conflict’s over.” And that was that. I still looked into enlisting, in order to pay for college, but my folks insisted that they would pay for school. As I had posted earlier, it wasn’t until years later that I learned that when I was adopted, my parents promised that they would get me an education, a promise that they were determined to keep, and did. Even so, I went to Behrend College of Penn State and was one of the founding members of the ROTC program on Behrend Campus, learning under Captain Small (later promoted to Major), and Sergeant King.

These were two very interesting guys. Captain Small was one of the first Cobra pilots in Viet Nam. He was a good commander of the ROTC unit, good sense of humor, definitely a leader. He had an odd habit, though. He chewed on his hands. He would kind of nip them all over until there were small scabs all over both hands; they would heal up, look great, and then a while later he would do it all over again. I figured it was due to his time “in country,” but never asked about it.

Sgt. King was my hero. I have said that he is the second heroic man who influenced me in my life, my Dad being the first. Sgt. Don King was a large man, quiet, and a Green Beret. He had been field grade Captain in Viet Nam, but due to the fact that he didn’t have a college degree was rolled back to Sergeant after the conflict. I learned a lot from that man. As far as I know, he retired to his home state of Texas, and if anyone knows of his whereabouts, I would appreciate connection, address, anything. When I finished up at Behrend, and transferred to main campus, I opted to not continue the ROTC program there, and not enlist upon graduation. One of the hardest things I have ever heard in my life was the words that Sgt. King said when he learned that I would not continue. He looked me straight in the eyes, and said, “I’m disappointed in you, Clark. You would have made a fine officer.”

But even though I did not serve, I have honored the military and those that have served, throughout my entire life. And this is where I get “political.” Politically, if you are liberal and get irritated easily, I would not be hurt if you stop reading here.

See, I just don’t understand how one can serve in the military and still lean liberal. I hear liberals voicing honor to the military and my first inclination is to get irked. Ok, I know many liberals that honestly appreciate the military, and are sincere in their voicing that appreciation. My problem comes from having lived through the 60’s. I remember how the military, and those that served then, were treated. I remember seeing troops getting spat upon and called “baby killers” in public. I remember the shame that was heaped on them, and that at a time that, as always, I loved the military. From my perspective, the “traditional” liberal attitude is one of contempt for the military, including the Clinton years in the Presidency, when a General, upon saying good morning to one of the Clintons’ top staffers, was told, “We don’t talk to uniforms.” The attitude of liberals may have changed to the point that younger liberals honestly see no inconsistency between being politically liberal and appreciating the military. As I said, my perspective has been shaped by the 60’s, which by the way, I hated when I was in ‘em. And I simply do not believe liberals of that generation, say anyone older than 40 or 45, when they say that they like, love, or simply appreciate the military.

I seem to recall that during the Presidential election in which George W. Bush beat Gore, that the military vote was suppressed. I didn’t hear howls of protest from the left about that, and if the military vote had been properly counted (as I recall that it was not), there would have been no doubt of the outcome. Same with the current Presidential election. Oh, I hear screaming from the left about this group’s vote being “disenfranchised,” or that group’s vote being suppressed, but the military? Not a word. Personal opinion? Theirs is the only vote that should be taken early. If you’re not in the military and can’t vote at the appointed time, on the appointed day, too bad, so sad. There are absentee ballots for those with legitimate reasons for not getting there on time so use them! If you forget, if you don’t have a legitimate reason to cast an absentee ballot, forget it. You don’t vote. In fact, voting is a constitutional right, I understand. But I think it is a right that is also a privilege, and if you don’t show a certain respect for that right and privilege, then I would have no issue with denying that vote. Liberal or Conservative, there is no reason that one should not understand the basics of our system. I would personally institute a test that one must pass prior to voting. The test would consist of something like the following questions: first, what is our type of government? The answer would be Democracy, Representative Republic, something like that. Second, what are the two major political parties with candidates running for office (Democrat and Republican). Third, define the difference between Capitalism and Socialism. Fourth, what are the names of the Democrat and Republican Presidential nominees and their running mates. Simple. And if you don’t pass, you don’t vote.

Anyway, back to the military.

I read a Robert Heinlein story once in which the only eligible voters in that society were currently in the military or veterans of the military. I was intrigued by that concept, and I would almost (emphasis on almost) support giving up the right to vote under that condition. I would probably add police officers, fire fighters, nurses, and perhaps even something like the Peace Corps. My thoughts are that if you aren’t willing to serve, do you really have the right to decide the course of the country? Of course, I know the answer to that, and I support our country, the Constitution, and the intent of our Founding Fathers. Even so, it’s an intriguing concept.

And I know of liberals that have served in the military. Several I worked with on the Erie Police Department, and several that I have met along the way. But I guess I am kind of puzzled, since generally speaking, it is the more conservative political party that appreciates the military. The liberal side? Not so much. I remember John F. Kerry running against President Bush. Kerry wore his service on his sleeve, and my personal opinion is that he joined, not out of patriotism, but cynically so he could utilize his service after he got out. Even so, I appreciate his service. At least he joined. It’s what he did while in there and after that I despise, and acts as an example of what I believe is the general opinion that liberals have of the military.

I was prompted to write this blog after seeing a post on Facebook. One of my liberal friends posted an article written by one that had served in the military on why that person was voting for Obama. My friend stated that because of the author’s service, he should be taken seriously. My friend and I are in what I would call the beginning stages of friendship. We respect each other and our opinions, even though they often conflict. But I am a good judge of character, and I believe that Steve is sincere when he vocalizes support for the military. But I can judge his sincerity because I know him. It is much more difficult for me when it is someone I do not personally know, and cannot read their character enough to judge their sincerity.

So, to all in the military, to all that have served, and to all that shall serve in the future, my undying thanks. You have my appreciation, my admiration. Your political persuasion is irrelevant to this, and I thank you. As a right-winger, as an American, I applaud you, even if you are a “leftie.” Your service is admirable, and this country would not, could not be what it is without your service, and your sacrifice. May you be blessed and honored for your service. May we who are protected get it right. May you never have a moment’s time in which you are not certain that the vast majority of Americans are grateful for what you did, what you do, what you will do. May God Bless.

I have no proof of this, but I have always been given to understand that this is an old Chinese curse. I used to think that such a thought was silly; who wants to lead a boring life. Then I understood just how stressful and difficult it can be when one’s life is “interesting,” and I longed for a life that was perhaps a bit less “interesting.” I even found that for a while. However, I find myself at a place now where my life is again a bit interesting.

For a while I’ve been in a bit of a quandary. I have wanted to post here, but was finding it difficult to develop a relevant topic. And then I heard Jeremy Riddle’s “Sweetly Broken” on our local Christian radio station, WCTL (BTW, they also stream and can be found at www.WCTL.org). This song touched me, and after pondering for a while, I realized why my life is currently interesting and why this song resonated at this point in time. There are several components to where I am right now.

First, a couple of weeks ago I found myself in an odd state of mind. It occurred to me that I was quite frightened of a situation in which I am close to finding myself.

In previous posts I have discussed our Pastor, Bob Klecan in one reference or another. I have had the privilege of grabbing an occasional cup of coffee with him on several occasions. We have discussed everything from theology and “the church” to The Beatles, Vietnam, and sports. And two things I have noticed: First, Bob Klecan is extremely smart. And second, he is often underestimated. He is a very humble man, able to discuss a variety of topics, understands deep issues, and can preach the word in a way that is understandable both in theory and in application.

I once asked him, “How do you deal with people underestimating you all the time?” The look on his face was priceless. He was shocked, first of all because it is true, he is consistently underestimated, but also because someone noted that fact. He asked me how I knew that. My reply was that it was easy for me to recognize that in him because I am underestimated all the time as well.

Note to all. I am not bragging here, and this is not a “How cool am I?” piece. Puffing myself up is not my style, far from it. But I need to acknowledge some things in this post which could look like bragging. Not so.

Anyhow, with that proviso, I admit that I’m a fairly smart individual. I enjoy learning and I enjoy experiencing new thoughts and new situations. However, I come from a blue-collar family, solidly middle-class; not intentionally identifying ourselves as intellectual. My Father was a non-commissioned officer in the army in WWII, and after that a farmer. After selling the farm (where I grew for the first six years of my life), Dad purchased a service station in Springboro, PA. He later took a job as a tool and die maker, working in that job until he retired. Dad also did tax work on the side, which is about the only post-High School education he had. Mom, due to family situations prior to marriage, did not have a chance to complete High School. Relatively common in her era.

My point in giving some description of my family’s levels of education is to show that I do not come from a background of higher education. Some people come from families of doctors, attorneys, accountants, whatever. Those families more or less expect their children to also get an education, the key word being also. I did not grow up in that situation.

Although they had no college background, my family expected me to go to college, and it was just understood that I was going to college my entire life. It wasn’t until decades later I discovered that when my parents adopted me, the judge granting the adoption made my parents promise that their son would get an education. My parents were two of the most honest and honorable people I have ever known and when they made that promise, they were determined to keep it. And they did.

My high school years were spent in Saegertown Area High School (they called it Penncrest, but we that went to Saegertown knew better). I kind of coasted through high school, and struggled through my undergraduate work at Penn State. I wasn’t much of a student at that time, but that doesn’t mean that I didn’t find new stuff fun. I did. Leaving home and going to Behrend College of Penn State for the first time was cool! Going to Main Campus from Behrend was cool! Getting into my major class work as a junior and senior was cool, and I did a lot better, gradewise. Within a few months of graduating from Penn State, I got a job as a policeman, my dream job, and I have been a policeman for over thirty years.

All this background is to get to this: my entire life I have hidden my intelligence, my drive, and my love of learning and knowledge. Cops are the best bunch of people one could ever find outside the military, and I am honored and privileged to belong to that fraternity. And cops hate a peg that sticks out. If someone is unique, cops will do whatever it takes to pound that person back into the hole. This isn’t necessarily an “I’m threatened” kind of thing, either. We depend on each other for our lives. Very few professions worry about some knucklehead deciding for whatever reason to put a bullet into them because they had a bad day. Cops have to know, viscerally, that the guy next to them is dependable, and will do whatever it takes to keep them safe. A fellow officer’s oddities and uniqueness makes cops nervous, so they do what they must to feel secure that they are safe. And that includes figuratively beating on intellectually minded people (I was also different from most cops because of the “peculiar and strange” values I brought with me due to my understanding of Christianity, but that isn’t what I’m discussing here). So I learned (at least to some degree) to suppress that part of me. Note: This is not a value judgement or a criticism. I understand the necessity of what cops do, and it is what it is. It’s just not all that pleasant sometimes.

So here I am, thirty (plus) years later, and I find myself in a new position. I am the Chief of Police at a University in northwestern Pennsylvania, Edinboro University of PA. I enjoy this stage of my career, partly because of the position, of course. I think I am doing some good where I am, and I have the chance to make a great police department even a bit better. But for me, part of the uniqueness is being on a college campus. I am an administrator at an institution that not only appreciates intelligence, it encourages people to apply that intelligence and to develop it. I have found myself on various committees that I would have never dreamed of a few years ago, and I am enjoying that. I find myself in debates with friends on the far end of the political scale from me, and have loved the debate. My wife and I have visited an “Athiests and Agnostics” meeting, and I now have a couple of acquaintances that intrigue me and I look forward to developing a relationship with them.

And here is where I found myself frightened. I find that I am close to being seen as a “smart” person, someone who, if not exactly an intellectual, enjoys intellectual debate and can hold his own in that area. And not only seen as smart, but valued because of that. I have suppressed that part of me for so long that it is scary to tap into it. As a couple of examples, when we attended the Athiest and Agnostic meeting, the discussion was based on John Stuart Mill’s “On Liberty,” an essay he had written in 1849. It is a philosophical treatise on Utilitarianism, and definitely not light reading. I read it for the discussion, and I loved it! I have not participated in philosophical readings or discussion in over ten years, and I had forgotten how much I enjoyed that. I also took college level Spanish 101 and 102 this summer, and my comprehension of a foreign language was better than I have ever experienced.

There are also a number of events occurring this summer. I am stepping out on a number of issues: instead of sitting in one place, Beth and I took the conscious step to confront some issues that had been effecting us. So instead of just passively standing still and taking shot after shot from life, we decided to deal with it, and consequently we are in a much better place now. I decided to have needed corrective surgery that I had been putting off for some time (healing nicely, thank you). We are dealing with the loss of my Mother last fall, as well as other family issues. I volunteered to be on a council that is quite frightening in and of itself, but I felt led to do volunteer, and so was obedient. And we are going back to the Dominican Republic in January.

If you have read my posts regarding the one-week missions trip to the Dominican Republic which started this blog, you already know how astounding it is that I would want to go back this year. I didn’t just kind of not want to go to the DR, I did not want to go, and I was angry that I had agreed to go and was being held to that agreement. But, being the son of honorable people, I was determined to honor that commitment, even if I hated every single second of the time I was there. Read my posts in chronological order to see the progression, but suffice it to say that God worked in amazing ways in me over that week. I came back from the DR with a renewed spirit and huge gratitude for God’s love for me.

This year, I felt that we needed to go back. However, no one at church had made any effort for that to happen and I felt God’s prompting to be the driver. I contacted our team leader from last year, we conferred with Pastor Klecan, and we got a game plan together. Last Sunday at church I made an announcement regarding the trip, and seventeen people showed up to discuss their participation in the DR trip in January. Fifteen want to go, but only four can fund the trip for themselves, and the deadline for the down payment (and thus one’s ability to go in January) is two weeks from tomorrow. This past week, an anonymous donor paid for five to go. We have six to fund.

I have been battered and bruised. Crushed, numb. But I see changes in me, in the way I view things, in my outlook. I see healing and the return of my desire to excel, to learn, to push myself and to “push the envelope.” Although I am more than a little uneasy at where I am right now, I feel my sense of God’s presence returning and it is far from boring.

An interesting life? Yeah, it sure is. And for now, I love it. Sweetly Broken? I’m not sure I completely understand that concept yet, but I’m far closer to understanding it than I was.

I have been corresponding with a friend for a while on an issue that we both are working on. John is my accountability partner with internet use and so on, and I would be so far from where I am if not for him. Over time I have had several guys to whom I made myself accountable, and I am so grateful for their work and prayers. So, thank you to Randy, Carl, Doug, and John. May God richly bless you for taking the time to work with a hard head like me on such a difficult issue. I remain a “work in progress,” but any success I have had is due to your prayers and work. Thank you.

Anyhow, my correspondence with John took a turn in an interesting direction the past couple days. We have come to a point in our discussion where the focus is on matching Biblical Grace with Biblical Truth, and not as separate issues. This is what John said:

“Grace and truth often appear to be in conflict with each other and yet Jesus was FULL of both at the same time.

At the risk of offending you and apologies if I do, you are FULL of truth and light on grace. We need to be FULL of both and that’s so very hard (seemingly impossible) to do.”

A couple of weeks ago our Pastor, Bob Klecan, gave a message that I discussed earlier (see my earlier post, “Exclusive? Definitely. Inclusive? Even more so,” put up on August 19). In just a sentence or two, his point was basically this: do I want to win a point, or do I want to make a mark for eternity? And this is a difficult issue for me.

This past Sunday, Pastor Bob made a point that I paraphrase in this way:

“Christianity is unique from other religions in this way: other religions offer advice on what I must do so that in the end God may accept me. Christianity says that I CANNOT earn my place with God. ALL I MUST DO is accept the gift of God’s salvation through the finished work of Jesus Christ. All I must do is repent, NOT first from my sins, but from my righteousness; from that which I think makes me ‘good enough’ to stand before God. THAT is the ‘gospel;’ THAT is God’s Good news.”

Although the previous point is no problem for me, the others above are issues I have struggled with for a long time. If one is familiar with the Bible’s New Testament, one is familiar with various personalities. The Apostle John is rather a dreamer, a mystic. He appeals to many “artsy” people, but for me he’s a bit too touchy-feely. Ick. At the risk of catching rocks, I just don’t identify with John. Paul, I like. Straightforward, intellectual, I like to read his stuff. I like his mind, and I like his logic. But of all the characters in the New Testament, I probably identify with Peter the most. Peter, the impulsive one. Peter the hard-head. Peter the one-hundred percent committed one that was willing to jump into a sword fight and die with or for the unmistakable Messiah. Peter, the one who denied that same savior not once, but three times in a matter of a couple of hours. That’s me. So the issue of grace and truth is a difficult one. Truth? Easy! Grace? Not so much. Also, I want to point out that there are people on Facebook in particular that I really care about and although we disagree, I would never want to hurt them. With them, it is no chore to be “nicer.” I love them, and enjoy the debate, but harsh? I just don’t want to be that to them.

In this post, I talk about two issues: divorce and pornography, and I need to make a couple of points now. First, I think pornography wrong in each and every instance. It’s pretty clear according to scripture that looking at someone not your spouse with lust is as destructive and sinful as adultery. So in no case is porn ever ok. Divorce is not so cut and dried. Scripture maintains a few instances where divorce is acceptable, if not ideal. For the sake of brevity, I would count those reasons as a partner’s infidelity and one suffering abuse. Further, if one is divorced, so be it. I have no condemnation for anyone in that place. But I think in our “no fault” society, we are far too quick to dump someone for any reason what so ever. And that is what I’m talking about below.

Edited, I responded to John’s email (above) in this way:

Ok, pretty much my whole life I’ve been angry, but I’m not sure exactly at what. My Dad used to tell me (a lot) that I was going to wind up in jail if I didn’t get my temper under control, so this is not a new phenomenon. Further, I have always had a strong sense of justice. Mom used to tell of me coming home from school and after watching kids pick on other kids that were weaker or whatever, talking about how that wasn’t fair. Finally, I do tend to see things in black and white. It’s right or it’s wrong, and if it’s wrong, then it’s wrong. Period. This part serves me well with things like fidelity and purity, but maybe not so much in my relationship with people.

Now, that having been said, I have long maintained that I don’t care what you think, or what I think, or what anyone thinks; what does the Word of God SAY? And if something is spelled out as right or wrong, then there it is.

And here’s where all of the above clashes. On controversial issues of the day, I have little patience for a unitarian approach, whereby if that’s what one wants to do, well, that’s just fine. But I also recognize that the “hammer” approach doesn’t often win a lot of converts (or friends for that matter). So, where does that leave me?

I think that with people whom I trust and feel comfortable with, like Beth, and those of you in Small Group, I feel free to just say what I think, and not hold back. But that doesn’t really give an accurate representation of what I think, who I am, how I respond, and what image I put forth to the world. I was talking about this to Beth and she observed that I seem to have “a public face and a private face.” True. Especially after Bob’s sermon two weeks ago, I have been trying to be a bit “softer” in my approach on Facebook. And for a long time, I will rant about our daughters to Beth, but when talking to them, I am much more subdued.

I think I have two issues here. First, quite honestly, I get tired of taking it. I get frustrated with people taking foolish or just plain wrong positions, and acting like they are morally or intellectually superior to me. Makes me nutty. The example I gave Beth was, so if someone says, “You know what, I don’t believe two plus two equals four. I believe it equals five,” the response I want to give is, “Idiot, NO IT DOESN’T, AND YOU ARE DEMONSTRATABLY WRONG!!!” But I’m supposed to say, “Well, that’s interesting. How do you come to that conclusion?” That is hard for me.

Second, I really struggle with this: Who is really served by soft-pedalling the truth? I’m just not sure. I know I am harsh, but I struggle with being “squishy” when “capital-T” Truth is being discussed.

One example from Sunday night. As you said earlier, I am not trying to offend, and I apologize if I do. I noticed something that was said. The statement was made that she has no problem with people who are divorced serving in church. Actually, I don’t either, but like I said then, it depends on why they were divorced. Referring to what I said above, I don’t care what anyone thinks, what does the Word of God say? And God says, “I HATE divorce.” Now that is pretty strong coming directly from God, and I think we are a bit cavalier about divorce. Is divorce the unforgivable sin? Certainly not. But it is a serious topic that we should not just gloss over.

Most sin, I think, affects me, and only indirectly others. Gluttony or lying being examples. Both are wrong, both are sin, but often the main effect of either sin is directly on me. I bear the brunt of the crushing effect of them. But pornography or divorce very often hurt people right next to the one committing that particular sin. I recognize that in terms of value all sins are the same, but the ripple effect, I think, is much more striking in some sin than others.

So, where do I go from here? Hard to say. I am trying to be kind. I am trying to be less harsh, less of a hammer. But how well is that working? I don’t know, and I am still so conflicted. In issues where it is so clear to me, how do I let it go? How do I show love when I think a slap is more appropriate? It’s not enough to say that God didn’t treat me like that, or any other similar platitude. I know these things in my head. but I am far more a “soldier” than a “diplomat.” God help me! I just don’t know how to spare the sword and offer a hand.